


We'll Eat You Up We Love You So

by artemisborne



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Dark, Eichen | Echo House, Fondling, Hair-pulling, Hurt Stiles, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manhandling, Molestation, Nogitsune, Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, POV Third Person, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sex, Underage Rape/Non-con, Virgin Stiles Stilinski, Virginity, Virginity Kink, Work In Progress, and lazy, guess whos fucked up, i want people to read this sue me, idk how to make the check not a check but ya this IS NOT DONE, ima gonna add more after i actually finish it lol, its in that ball park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 21:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13085370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemisborne/pseuds/artemisborne
Summary: Brunski tightened his fingers and pulled the boy’s head even further back, testing. Stiles pulled his left arm up, the one still on the floor, then quickly brought it down again, adjusting shakily to find purchase at the difficult angle the man held him in. Adjusting to him, Brunski thought. Good. They continued to stare each other down. Brunski watched Stiles amusedly, his mouth hung confidently open. Stiles glared back, defiant and unruffled, but something in those brown eyes, something hidden, something. Brunski celebrated. Something afraid.Stiles was growing very well acquainted with fear.





	We'll Eat You Up We Love You So

**Author's Note:**

> sorry everybody i always swore i would never do this and honestly no one's gonna read brunski and stiles dark fic anyway so whatever but this has been sitting in my docs for i think a year and it's ACTUALLY REALLY GOOD there are some less than ideal parts but you know. anywho so i don't see me finishing this within the next year or possibly ever unless people are telling me to and possibly giving me ideas for what happens next because besides the rape ,, fuck if i have a plan. so yeah if you're like me (why am i doing this) and do not touch unfinished (possibly permanently) fics then obviously don't read this, esPECIALLY bc i cut off before pretty much anything sexual happens and i have had many a case of blue pussy bc of this very issue and let me tell you, the people who do this with no indication of having done so are ON MY LIST. enjoy:)
> 
> ps does anybody know why i couldn't do italics on this/ how to bc they were there in google docs and then they poofed

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind… and another...

 

A man walked down the hallway of a mental institution. He glanced from left to right into the small, barred windows on the doors on either side of the corridor. His eyes flicked from room to room, gleaming proprietarily, but then swiftly returning their focus to one door, just like all the others, towards the end of the hallway. They couldn’t seem to help themselves. The man was tall and thin and strode directly through the center of the hall in such a way that, from certain angles, his dark silhouette against the fluorescent white light of Eichen House resembled that of an angel whose wings flickered statically, in, but mostly out, of existence. As he walked, the man reached absentmindedly for his shirt pocket, brushing past his identification tag, finding the familiar bulge and weight of his keys. He smiled with his mouth slightly open. His right lip twitched up. He stopped in the middle of the hallway. He had arrived. He stepped, slowly, to the door. His mouth stretched into a large grin, filled with mostly tongue, and he let out a few stuttered, noisy breaths. Almost like a laugh. He looked down one end of the hall. Then the other. He looked back at the door. He exhaled, long and anticipatory. Through the bars on the window, a boy lay on the floor.

The man turned his key in the lock and stepped forward.

The room was white. It smelled of clorox. Although designed to be a solitary confinement cell, where one might expect to find padding, there was only solid, hard floor and tiled walls. The boy was asleep, on his side. He wore a dark grey t-shirt, sweatpants, black boxer briefs just visible where the sweatpants hung low around his hips, and flimsy beige slippers. All compliments of the institution, excepting the underwear. The boy had slick, messy black hair and a small, upturned nose. His skin was fair and utterly smooth, with brown beauty marks dotted across his face. His expression would’ve been described as slack were it not for the slight crease between his eyebrows and the tension at the corners of his lips, like that of a child who is afraid, yet too eager to appear brave to admit themselves so. The boy liked to be called Stiles.

Brunski walked to Stiles and crouched over his limp form. He looked so defenseless in sleep, so pliable. None of that false confidence hardening his features. Just lying here helpless, at the mercy of whoever happens to walk by, calm, unaware. Beautiful. Brunski almost didn’t want to wake him. But then, flashes of the boy’s rolling eyes, his biting comments. Vending machine, Stilinski’s low, raspy voice slipping oh-so-self-assuredly out of pink, wet lips, exasperated exhales, as if to say- oh god, what now? Oh, really? Snarky little shit. Really? Seriously? His penchant for expecting special treatment. I can’t go to sleep, you don’t understand. Oh, I don’t understand? I don’t- I’m sorry, I’m sorry- begging, but too late, only once he realized he was in trouble, only when he had no other option, no other recourse but false contrition, false sincerity, trying to manipulate me, trying to- you don’t understand- crying for help, struggling under the weight of Orderly Jacobson, pinned on his stomach, jerking, squirming- no one’s going to help you here, kid, especially not a disrespectful, arrogant- vending machine- mouthy little- legs bucking, hand at the back of his neck, holding him still, holding him down and he knew he couldn’t move, so why was he fighting? Why struggle, why kick out, unless he liked it, unless- he tried- stealing his keys, asking- demanding a phone call his first night, had to call Daddy, had to call Daddy to come get him, come save him from this horrible place, come bring me my pillow, Daddy, Daddy who drove him here, who loves him so much, his little boy, his little stiles, sweet little stiles- you don’t understa- No, YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, YOU LITTLE WHORE! I MAKE THE RULES HERE - I DECIDE FOR YOU, I DECIDE YOUR FATE, SHIT HEAD, I DECIDE WHAT YOU DO, WHO YOU ARE, YOU LEARN HOW TO TALK TO ME, CUNT, IF YOU WANT TO GET BY HERE, YOU NEED TO LEARN HOW TO BEHAVE, YOU NEED TO LEARN YOUR LESSON, YOU OBNOXIOUS, BRATTY LITTLE COCKSLUT, GODDAMN WHORE, LITTLE BITCH, FUCKING-

Right. Brunski reached a trembling hand vaguely towards his shirt pocket. So. He needed to hear this one screaming.

He grabbed hold of Stilinksi’s shoulders and shook. The boy’s body lolled back and forth. He started making sounds at the back of his throat, mostly groans, but some on their way to words. 

“Hey. Stilinski. Come on. Up and atom,” Brunski sing-songed. “Stilinskiiii.”

Stiles’s mouth was the first thing to come online. He yelled. His eyes snapped open, then, and he jolted upright, chest rapidly rising and falling, arms flailing out, looking for grounding. Fuck. Maybe he really wasn’t supposed to go to sleep, Brunski mused. Rather humorously, he thought.

Brunski’s hands stayed planted on the boy’s shoulders, trying and failing to keep him still. “Stilinski! Stilinski! Jesus Christ, calm down!”

He didn’t seem to realize that he was awake. The kid’s eyes were wide and panicked, darting all over the place, and he was shouting wordlessly like he was about to be killed. Brunski chuckled, incredulous. Swiftly, he brought his right hand to the top of Stilinski’s head, tangled his fingers into his black hair, and yanked back. The chords in the boy’s neck pulled taut. His adam’s apple rolled up and down, as though trapped. 

Stiles tried to shout one last time, but the noise died in his throat and reincarnated into a painful, wheezing cough. He stared at Brunski, panting, blinking rapidly, small sounds like words but lacking the consistency of such and harsh, labored breaths escaping his throat. His glistening brown eyes strained to take in his current situation. The man’s face, the corners of his mouth extending upwards, teeth jutting out beneath his top lip, black eyes trained intently on Stiles, the solid flatness of the floor, sharp corners of the room, a tight, pinching pull on his hair, a weight on the top of his skull, a hand, the man’s- Brunski’s- a flare of something like disgust blazed across the boy’s face.

His mouth opened at precisely the same time as his hand went to shove Brunski’s off of him.

“Hey get off me man! What-” Stiles pushed at the man’s hand, but he held tight. Stiles stared at him. He was balanced on one knee and leaning over Stiles, into his space. He still had that kind of smile on his face. Stiles grabbed at his hand again, but it didn’t loosen. Brunski kept smiling down at him.

“What the hell man,” Stiles shook his head slightly, pulled at the man’s hand again. Brunski jerked his head harshly to the right, chuckling momentarily to himself.

“Ah- ha-” Stiles grabbed onto Brunski’s hand again, but this time to to steady himself, trying to keep Brunski from yanking anymore. 

The man’s gaze was locked on Stiles’. 

The boy looked back at him and his face changed. Uncertainty crept through. He swallowed, strenuously, the stale saliva collected in the back of his mouth, adam’s apple bobbing again. Brunski no longer smiled. His jaw was locked in place. His eyes shone with a glint like those of a territorial cat crouched low. For a moment, it seemed that the man’s pupil would stretch itself into a thin line and his black irises would gleam yellow. The room was quiet. 

Brunski tightened his fingers and pulled the boy’s head even further back, testing. Stiles pulled his left arm up, the one still on the floor, then quickly brought it down again, adjusting shakily to find purchase at the difficult angle the man held him in. Adjusting to him, Brunski thought. Good. They continued to stare each other down. Brunski watched Stiles amusedly, his mouth hung confidently open. Stiles glared back, defiant and unruffled, but something in those brown eyes, something hidden, something. Brunski celebrated. Something afraid.

Stiles was growing very well acquainted with fear.

Brunski let the boy tremble in the uncomfortable position a moment longer, watching him twitch, feeling his soft hair between his fingers. Finally, he let go.

Stiles exhaled and inhaled deeply and rapidly while shuffling back away from the orderly. He tried to keep his heavy breathing inconspicuous. Brunski watched him, then turned away, looking at the door for a moment. It was around 7 o’clock. He turned back to the boy who was chancing quick glances at him from where he looked up with his arms on the floor behind him and his legs in front, separating him from Brunski. 

Brunski laughed. “Christ kid,” Stiles met his gaze and sustained it. “Looks like you got here just in time,” The tiles under Stiles palms were cold. “Fucking spastic.”

The insult hung in the air for a moment. Stiles remembered a time when he was little and he and his dad had been flying to Poland to visit their family. The clouds were thick and the pilot had said over the speakers that they were experiencing turbulence. The plane kept wobbling from side to side and all of a sudden it just fell, they were just free falling, straight out of the sky. Then it leveled out again and Stiles ears hurt and he felt more aware of everything on the plane, his hands gripping the armrests and his feet on the floor that was only a few feet thick. But mostly he felt more aware of the giant, empty space all around the plane and how small he was and how hard the ground must be where it lay at the end of that enormous nothingness below him. His Dad had told him that it happened because the pilot decided to drop altitude. That meant that the plane was flying through turbulent air and instead of trying to maneuver his way through it, the pilot just let the plane drop a few feet, where it was calmer. He squeezed Stiles’ hand and told him to try to go to sleep.

Brunski looked back and forth between Stiles’ eyes.

He decided he wanted to play with his food. He had to, the boy was so perfect. He had overdone it a bit with the rough play. Couldn’t resist. He could play it off like he was just trying to calm the kid down. An unconventional treatment method. Little Stiles looked like he was so out it he’d believe anything that’d help explain the panic away. 

The boy’s cheeks blushed red.

They had time, in here. They had a lot of time.

Finally, the silence was broken. “What do you want? Why are you in here?” Stiles paused, drawing in more air. “Can I leave now?”

Brunski’s nostrils flared. His mouth, nose, and eyebrows scrunched up, creating lines all over his face. He uttered in one low, monotone note, “You’re going to want to watch your tone with me.”

A drop in altitude.

Stiles stared at Brunski. Then his eyes dropped to the floor and he shifted, his hands going up to straighten his shirt out where it was slightly disheveled. 

“Okay man, you gotta, ease up on the whole creepy, power trip thing you got goin’ on.” Stiles flicked occasional glances up at the orderly while he spoke. “You know, it’s a mental hospital, not a prison.”

Brunski breathed in, and out.

Stiles breathed harder, in, and out.

Finally, Brunski decided to find the boy’s comment funny. Time, he remembered. He puffed air through his nose and stood up, not missing the way Stiles flinched, followed by the way he tried to hide it. The boy’s body sort of deflated a bit as soon as Brunski turned his back on him. He walked across the room and leaned back against the wall.

“I’m well aware of where I am, Stiles. Although I’m not so sure I could say the same for you.”

Haltingly, Stiles’ got up off the ground. Brunski observed him the way a scientist would a rare creature brought in for testing. The kid never gives up.

“Yeah, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on little man. You said it yourself. This is a mental institution,” The orderly put his hands out, indicating the room they stood in. “That makes you a mental patient. Or as I like to call it, a nut job.”

The boy rolled his eyes and looked away, not catching the dark shadow that fell across the man’s face. 

“But you walk around this place like the rules don’t apply to you. Like you aren’t the same as the rest of them.”

“I’m not.”

“And yet, here you are.”

The kid scoffed. He actually scoffed. 

“Look, you really don’t know-”

Instantaneously, the man's demeanor shifted from cool observance to vibrating confrontation. “What? What don’t I know?” With purpose, Brunski pushed off the wall and strode towards Stiles. The boy took a step back, but there wasn’t really anywhere to go in the small room. Brunski walked fast, marching straight past the comfortable conversational distance and into Stiles’ personal space, leaving only about two feet between them.

Free fall.

“Hey man, back off.” Stiles took another step back, but he was nearly at the wall. 

“I don’t need to know the details. They don’t matter,” The kid looked up at Brunski, almost confused, moist lips parting, his slender fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. 

Brunski continued, voice getting quieter, but not softening. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s sure this is all some big misunderstanding? That you don’t really need this place? Let me clue you in, Stiles, let me do you a solid, every single patient who’s walked through those doors, every one, has spent their first days convinced, and desperate to convince everyone else, that they don’t belong here. It’s a mistake. The treatment style is too extreme. They’re feeling better. Every excuse in the book, everything and anything your cracked little brains can come up with. You are not special. So I don’t care what brought you here, I don’t care who your Daddy is, and I don’t care that this isn’t the easy breezy beautiful weekend getaway you were expecting. You are here. What that means is that your mind is weak, unstable. You are not fit to control your own life, do you get it?” He devoured the way the boy swallowed, his blood rushed through his veins like he had a jet engine for a heart. “You are not in control, here. I am.”

Leveling out. Pressure, pushing in. 

Stiles could feel Brunski’s breath on his face. Smell it. He wanted to cough, turn his head away, but at the same time, he felt as if he could do nothing but stay very still. He registered a stiffness in his right leg. The dampness of his palms. He looked for a second as though he was going to wipe them on his pants, but he didn’t. 

A deep breath. He exhaled as he spoke. “Okay. Well. As much fun as this has been, did you actually come in here for a reason?”

The tall man smirked, then turned away.

The boy blinked rapidly, taking in the air in front of him where it replaced the man’s figure. He shifted his weight and wiped his hands absentmindedly on his shirt. His tongue wet his lips. 

“Because I’m actually, I’m actually feeling kind of tired and as long as I’m in here, you know, I might as well get some rest, so.” He said quickly, putting his hands on his hips when he stopped talking, for lack of anything better to do.

“I just thought we could chat.” Brunski said, his back still to the boy.

Stiles stood there blankly. “Chat.” He echoed.

“That’s right.” The man turned around coolly, reclaiming his position up against the wall opposite Stiles.

“Uh.” Stiles said. “

**Author's Note:**

> :)) what are you trying to say stiles come on spit it out lololol seriously does anybody have any suggestions bc im open to them. my tumblr's @mozillafirerox holla at me


End file.
